


The Adventure of the Denver Boot

by Ina MacAllan (inamac)



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers, Sherlock Holmes (2009), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Detectives, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-14
Updated: 2010-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-19 09:53:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamac/pseuds/Ina%20MacAllan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes receives an unexpected invitation to attend a Christmas house party.  He goes anticipating a meeting with an old friend, and finds  a new enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Denver Boot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unsettled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/gifts).



> Originally written for the LJ 'Holmstice' exchange Christmas 2010 to a prompt by sazzat who asked for " a Christmas time based confessions of love fic, Victor Trevor/Holmes, gentle smut, ACD canon, and plot." I'm afraid that I rather twisted the prompts, but re-reading _Gloria Scott_ reminded me that Trevor was not the only occupant of Norfolk in fiction, and I took the opportunity of integrating 2009 movie canon with ACD.
> 
> There is an addition chapter in this version as a gift for Unsettled, who (as ever) had asked for Coward/Blackwood and was disappointed.
> 
>  **Acknowledgements** This story is based on characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Dorothy L Sayers, and Guy Ritchie.

# The Adventure of the Denver Boot

Watson

Holmes rarely accepted social invitations. When he was not entirely focussed on his work his field of recreation encompassed the bathhouse and music hall rather than the salon and drawing room, so I was surprised when he announced that he had accepted an invitation to spend the Christmas season of 1886 on a Ducal estate in Norfolk.

"Does this mean that the Duke has some case that he wants investigated discreetly, or some family mystery solved?" I asked, intrigued.

Holmes shook his head. "There was no indication of any such ulterior motive in his invitation," he said, passing the thick envelope with its crested enclosures to me. "It is to be a small family party with a few friends. He has enclosed a guest list."

I unfolded the indicated paper and ran my eye down some thirty names – the Duke's concept of a 'small' party was clearly relative. As was his concept of 'friends'. There was a scattering of politicians, a number of society ladies, one or two well-known artists and a notorious actress, together with a few persons like Holmes whose names appeared often enough in the better quality newspapers to qualify as celebrities. "It looks as though it will be a lively gathering," I said. "And an attractive one."

Holmes smiled. "Always the one for the ladies, aren't you, Watson? My own proclivities do not lie in that direction, but the guest list is certainly intriguing. I have taken the liberty of accepting the invitation for both of us – if you have no objection?"

"Certainly not," I said. It would be churlish to turn down the opportunity of meeting the celebrated Mrs Langtry." I had not missed her name on the list of guests, and was in no doubt that Holmes had shown it to me for that very reason. I had expressed my admiration of 'The Jersey Lily' in the past.

"Very well." He set the invitation aside and turned back to the box of items which comprised his latest case. "Now," he said, lifting out a perfectly ordinary leather dog collar, "What do you make of _this_?"

Holmes

I confess that perhaps I gain too much pleasure from confounding Watson upon occasion. The man is much more intelligent than he gives himself credit for, and his insight into the motives of people, in particular the fair sex, remedies a deficiency in my own person. But I could not, in all honesty, explain to him precisely why I had taken the uncharacteristic step of accepting an invitation to spend Christmas in a remote country house in one of the dullest parts of these Islands.

The weather, on that Christmas Eve, did not confound my expectations. Doubtless Watson would report that our arrival at the small wayside Halt of Dukes Denver at the start of the festive season was heralded by a seasonal fall of snow. In fact our arrival at the estate took place in a light drizzle, and the Norfolk countryside was shrouded in a ground mist that made it impossible to see anything of the house or grounds until the Duke's brake, which had been sent to collect us, drew up at the front entrance.

The reason for my decision to accept the invitation was waiting discreetly in the entrance hall to witness our arrival. It had been several years since I had last met Victor Trevor and I confess that my reaction to seeing his name on the Duke's guest list was that of a giddy young girl confronted by a postcard portrait of her favourite actor. I should not have been surprised. His family home in Donnithorpe is not so far from the Denver estate, and his career, since coming into his inheritance, had moved him into the social circles where such an invitation was likely to be extended to a neighbour. Nevertheless, seeing him again in the flesh it took all my willpower to limit my greeting to no more than a polite nod of acknowledgement, which he returned before turning away and leaving me to the mercy of my effusive host. I was, again, grateful for Watson's sense of propriety. His acceptance of the Duke's greeting was sufficiently enthusiastic for my own distraction to be passed over.

I admit that, as Watson and I followed the footman up to our assigned rooms, my heart was beating much too fast. I took some time, as my companion busied himself about the deployment of our luggage and the contents of the trunks, to recover my senses.

Victor Trevor had been my first lover, and there had been no one since, male or female, who could quicken my blood as he could. The memory of that last, glorious Summer at Oxford, rowing on the Isis, sparring in the Cockpit, studying together in the Bodleian, heads almost touching over the desk, hands entwined beneath it, still has the power to make me hard with longing. It is an ache that can only be assuaged by a seven per cent solution of cocaine.

I could not be sure, naturally, that he shared my state, or that he would welcome my presence here. Particularly as he had been so quick to leave the hall. Something of my nervousness must have communicated itself to Watson who was most solicitous as he busied himself with the preparations for the first social engagement of our visit – a formal meeting with the Duke and Duchess and introductions to our fellow guests before dinner.

I dressed carefully, to the accompaniment of puzzled glances from Watson, who is unused to my showing concern for my appearance, though he made some comment which indicated that he attributed it to a concern for propriety in front of the Duke. I did not disabuse him of the idea although, had he applied my methods, he would have noticed that in the past I have shown no such concern for the sensitivities of Princes and potentates. Dear Watson. Were he not so utterly staid and conventional in his tastes I might have taught him more than the methods of rationalisation.

The dinner gong sounded as I was completing fastening my shirt studs, a set of matched rubies which had been the grateful gift of the Maharajah of ___ for a trifling service I had provided in identifying which of his gardeners had failed to protect his prized peaches from an early frost.

We walked down the long staircase and made our way to the grand reception hall of the house with a frisson of trepidation on both our parts.

Watson

It is unlike Holmes to show any reluctance to engage with other men, regardless of their status. I have known him on easy terms with Princes and paupers, but he seemed to be as uneasy as I about meeting the other members of the house party.

Several persons were already present when we entered the reception hall, a stark room of white marble columns and tall stone fireplaces adorned with broken pediments and Jacobean strapwork. It was the Duchess herself who noticed our arrival, and prompted her husband with a touch to his arm. He broke off his discussion with a tall, elegantly dressed man whose presence commanded the room far more than our host's and turned to us with a broad grin.

"Mr Holmes; Doctor Watson. Delighted that you were able to accept my invitation. Honoria, my dear, this is the celebrated detective and..."

"And his equally celebrated chronicler," finished the Duchess, with a delightful French lilt to her voice, offering her hand over which I bowed with, I hope, the proper degree of deference. I regret that I can no more put aside my medical training, and the unconscious habit of assessing the health of everyone I meet than Holmes can refrain from noticing every detail of his surroundings. In this case my eye noted the fullness of the Duchess's bosom and the slight thickening of her waist that even the superbly cut gown could not entirely hide. I recalled that she was but lately delivered of an heir to the Dukedom, and made some compliment on her safe delivery.

The Duke beamed. "It's little Gerry's first Christmas," he said. "Couldn't let it pass without a proper celebration. I've laid down a couple of cases of port for the boy's twenty-first."

"Then we must look for an invitation to the celebration of his majority." The speaker was a tall man, well over six feet in height, and attired in correct but flamboyant dress, his brocaded waistcoat had all the colour and pattern of a Persian carpet, and the watch-chain that depended from the pocket sported a cluster of gold charms and implements that suggested that he was prepared, even in the sedate environment of a Ducal drawing room, for any eventuality. His eyes, deep-set and green as moss, seemed to miss nothing. He extended an elegant long-fingered hand to the Duchess, as the Duke performed an introduction.

"Lord Blackwood," he said, as the man lifted the Duchess's captured hand for a formal kiss with far more elegance than I had managed. "And this," he said, drawing forward his companion, who, though equally elegantly attired, seemed but a shadow by contrast with his friend's vitality, "is our most recently elevated Peer, Lord Coward."

I thought that Holmes looked a little taken aback by the introduction, which was unlike him since he had examined the guest list, but the hesitation was explained in the next moment as the man turned from his formal greeting to our hosts and smiled, gripping Holmes' hand with the warmth of an old friend.

"Mr Holmes knows me as Victor Trevor," he said. "We were at Oxford together. And Blackwood anticipates my changed status – the new Honours List is not to be made public until the New Year."

He turned from Holmes and offered me his hand. His grip was firm and his smile warm. Not at all what I had expected, and it flustered me a little. I sought refuge in inconsequentiality. " _Coward_ seems an odd title to choose," I observed. "Is it a family name?"

The newly elevated Peer nodded, but had no further opportunity to elaborate for Blackwood interceded with proprietorial authority.

"Names have power," he said. "Victor understands that it would not be appropriate, with so many of our gallant soldiers defending the Crown in the most distant parts of the Empire, for a mere politician to aspire to a name which might usurp the honour done to such heroes." He smiled, but his eyes were cold and unblinking as a snake's, offering Holmes a challenge that I could not fathom. "Besides," he continued, "There are occasions in politics, as in dealing with the criminal classes, where a misleading name can be a valuable asset. I doubt that many of those whom you have put behind bars, or sent to the gallows, think of you as a _homely_ man."

The Duke broke the tension with honest laughter. "Capital theory, Blackwood! I can't say I've ever been accused of being whimsical, despite the family name."

Blackwood blinked. "True. We cannot be held responsible for our ancestor's choices, though perhaps the trait might be passed on to our heirs."

"Not Gerry," said the Duke. "Nothing whimsical about him. Good practical baby. Yells when he wants his food, bangs his rattle when he wants anything else. He'll be an asset to the Regiment when he's grown."

I noticed that the comment drew a small frown from the Duchess, and sought to reassure her. "There are a good many years yet for the boy to enjoy the company of his family, and his Mother. And the army is not to every boy's taste. He might wish to choose some other profession. That of consulting detective, for example."

My comment certainly distracted her, but not as I had expected. She frowned. "I'm sure that detection is quite fascinating, Doctor, but it is hardly a fitting occupation for a gentleman. It is not something that I would wish my son to take up."

Holmes moved to cover my faux pas. "Perhaps not, your Grace, but a good training in the methods of observation and logic are an asset to any gentleman. And I am sure that the young Viscount will have the best of educations, in all matters."

The Duke beamed. "You are quite right," he said. "Why, I already have assurances of a place at the best schools. I do believe..." But his discourse was interrupted as the clock struck the hour, and the doors to the dining room were thrown open to allow the party to pass into dinner.

Holmes

_Names have power_ Blackwood had said. I contemplated that as I followed his passage, and that of my old friend, through the party during that evening. I fear that Watson might have been concerned by my distraction, had he not been distracted himself by the attention of some of the ladies present. They bore him off to the card tables, and I was left to commandeer a place by the fireside, and to contemplate the relationship of the two men who were my fellow guests.

They seemed close, and I recalled what I could of Blackwood's history from my files.

Lord Henry Blackwood, one of the country's foremost – one might almost say notorious – occultists. There were strange rumours about his private life, and I wondered how Victor had made his acquaintance. It was obvious that Blackwood had somehow sponsored Victor's elevation to the peerage. Titles were no longer bought and sold, but if one had the ear of the Queen, or any of her favourites, one might ask for favours. And there was currently a fashion at court for the esoteric arts. I wondered how close a relationship my old friend had forged with the man. I could recognise his charisma, and his air of danger.

But it was none of my business. I had been foolish to accept the Duke's invitation solely in the hope of reviving a long dead friendship. I resolved to enjoy the occasion and, much to my own surprise, found that I could.

Christmas day passed in traditional manner, with a morning visit to the village church, and a mercifully short and seasonal sermon, before the formal exchange of gifts and more feasting and games. It was the following morning, as those members of the party who were to join the Duke on the Boxing Day hunt gathered at breakfast, that my decision to accept the invitation bore fruit.

"Holmes! " His Grace greeted my arrival in the breakfast room with a cry of relief. "Just the fellow!"

I nodded, lifting the cover from a dish of kedgeree and spooning a generous helping onto my plate.

"Not riding out this morning, I gather?"

"I regret not. Watson is the hunting man, and I promised to come down early to see you all off."

"Splendid." He took the ladle from me and augmented his own plate which already held coddled eggs and bacon. "As you'll not be joinin' us I wondered whether you might look into a little mystery for me?"

I indicated my assent and enquired after the task.

"Me new ridin' boots seem to have gone missing. You recall the ones Helen gave me for Christmas?"

I nodded. They had been much admired by the gentlemen present, almost as much as the ladies had admired the pearls that had been his reciprocal gift to the Duchess.

"Can't say that I'm entirely upset about it – breaking in new boots _and_ a new hunter at the Boxing Day meet wasn't something that I was lookin' forward to. But I'd be grateful if you'd poke around a bit. Do whatever it is you detective chappies do."

"I'll do what I can, your Grace. "

"Splendid. And here's the Doctor. Ready for a good run, Doctor?"

I turned from the sideboard as Watson entered, attired in breeches, boots and his Army riding jacket. He returned the Duke's greeting with an air of distraction, before turning to me and holding out a folded piece of notepaper for my perusal.

"What do you make of this, Holmes? It was pushed under the door of our rooms while I was changing. It is addressed to you."

I put down my plate, accepted the note and moved to the window where the wan winter sunlight provided sufficient illumination to examine the paper.

It was a sheet of the Denver letterhead, of the ordinary sort provided in each of the guest rooms for the use of members of the houseparty. The ink was also the dark blue provided for guests, though the penmanship used a distinctive broad nib which I did not recognise, and there was a peculiar evenness about the text that suggested the pen had not been dipped as frequently as was customary. It was undoubtedly the writer's own pen, and perhaps one of the new 'fountain' pens that were being developed. The note had been folded twice, and, as Watson had noted, bore my name. _Sherlock_.

"It's a very familiar form of address," Watson added, busying himself about breaking his own fast. "Do you have some unknown lady admirer?"

I made a noncommittal sound as I unfolded the paper. The message bore no proper address or greeting, and no signature.

_I would not have you mistake what it is you think I seek. Blackwood and I share the Will that shall be the proof in Parliament and the necessary strong tower of Power. Room enough for an army whose hour shall come after we ensure the means to hunt those whose departure we desire._

I read it through twice, to be certain that I had understood the message. As I re-folded the missive I found Watson, impelled by curiosity, at my side.

"Good news?" he asked, though my face could not have betrayed any trace of pleasure.

I pocketed the paper. "A warning, of sorts," I said. "And perhaps a threat. Watson, do take care on the hunting field this morning – and watch for Lord Blackwood."

His eyes met mine, and he gave a nod of agreement, but had no chance to say more, for the Duke had overheard my advice.

"Blackwood?" he asked. "You'll be hard pressed to keep up with him. Best man over timber in the shires. Though what he'll make of our ditches and dykes I'd like to see."

"You will have your opportunity." The man himself had entered, pulling on his riding gloves, and with his crop already tucked under his arm. "I've heard good reports of the sport to be had in Norfolk, Your Grace. I'm sure neither myself nor Doctor Watson will be disappointed."

"I trust not." His Grace set down his clean plate and used his napkin. "Well, to horse, gentlemen. And good huntin'!" His last comment was addressed to me, and I nodded my acknowledgement as the three men left the room and left me to contemplate my breakfast, and the note, in peace.

Watson

A Boxing Day meet is always more of a social occasion than an opportunity for serious sport. One spends more time waiting at covert-side and checks than following hounds. Norfolk was, in this respect, no different from the shire country I was used to, and, since I was mounted on an unknown and unpreposessing hireling I was grateful for the delays and the chance to converse with the other members of the field.

It also meant that I could follow Holmes' instructions to keep an eye on Lord Blackwood although, on any normal hunting day he would undoubtedly have outridden me, being both better horsed and a better horseman.

After drawing a blank at the first covert hounds put up a lean dog-fox who took us at a smart gallop for a couple of fields before giving the pack the slip at a snow-swollen dyke. The Duke had been right about Norfolk country, there was a good deal more ditch-jumping than timber, and the flat, frost-dusted plough gave good sighting and allowed for a clear run.

And I took the opportunity to take sight of more than one quarry. Blackwood was, as I had suspected, a 'thruster', always up with the leaders, though careful not to override hounds or, in unfamiliar country, to break ground. I admit that I have always admired a good cavalryman, both on horseback and in my surgery. Strong, well-muscled thighs and a good firm seat are as much to be admired in a man as a clear complexion and a gentle disposition is in a woman.

It was not, therefore, only Holmes' admonition that drew me to Blackwood's side when next hounds checked. I was casual enough about it, allowing my hireling fee rein while I drew out my hip-flask and surreptitiously nudged my mount with my heels. I was surprised when, without turning his attention from the dismounted whips, Blackwood greeted me by name.

"What do you think of the sport so far, Doctor Watson?"

I coughed to cover my astonishment. "Better than I anticipated." I said.

He laughed. "We have yet to catch our fox," he said, "But I am enjoying the chase." He turned in his saddle to face me. "And the view," he concluded.

I had a distinct feeling that he was not referring to the prospect of the Norfolk flatlands, but to my own person. I glanced down at my hands, occupied with the tangle of reins and the half-opened flask and covered the moment by choosing to misunderstand him. I completed uncorking the flask and held it out. "Would you care for a nip? It's my own mixture – whisky and port."

He smiled as he took the flask. "Trust a doctor to know the best way to keep warm on a cold hunting morning," he said, tipping it to his lips and drinking. I watched the movement of his throat make the gemstone on his stock pin glitter in the sunlight, and my own throat felt dry. Blackwood was a very attractive man, and I did not dare to pursue that thought any further. Thankfully at that moment one of the bitches gave tongue and there was a flurry of activity as the whips remounted and we were back cantering along the line.

The encounter, with its unspoken undercurrents, had left me rather flustered and I lost sight of Blackwood in short order. I believe that it was my distraction, combined with the speed of the chase and unfamiliarity with the ground and with my mount that led to inevitable disaster. I am used to country where there are banks and hedges as field boundaries, and overlooked the line of an open ditch. The hireling, more knowing than I, stopped short at the edge and tipped me unceremoniously into the drain. The film of ice cracked under me as I fell and I sat down hard in six inches of freezing water.

The music of the pack and the thunder of hooves vanished into the distance and then there was silence. I was alone in that godforsaken country.

"You seem to have got yourself into a bit of a pickle, Doctor."

Not quite alone. A horseman had seen my fall and drawn rein at the edge of the dyke. As so often on the hunting field the witness to my tumble was the last person I wished to see. Although he was nothing more than a black silhouette against the steel winter sky the voice was unmistakable.

Blackwood.

"Oh dear," he continued, with no trace of real concern in his voice, "You are rather wet. I think your hunting morning is over."

"Help me up." I tried to match his calm, but failed, and mentally cursed the trace of submission in my voice.

He dismounted, dropped his stallion's rein over a convenient bush, and reached a hand down to me. I grasped it and hauled myself to my feet, too wet now to care that my boots were as soaked as my breeches. When I achieved the top of the ditch I realised that he had managed to catch my own mount and both hunters were calmly grazing on what little vegetation there was on the ditch-edge.

"Thank you," I said, "For the rescue and catching my horse."

He nodded, and pointed along the line of the ditch to where a small sluice-keeper's hut cut the line of the horizon. "You need to dry out a bit, Doctor. Since my own hunt has been curtailed, I shall accompany you." Without awaiting acknowledgement he gathered up both horses reins and strode off along the dyke. I had no choice but to follow, dripping and shivering.

The hut, when we reached it, was little more than a windbreak constructed of roughly planed planks and with a door hanging loose on leather hinges. It was unlocked, although the sole contents, a stout chest which probably contained the iron key to open the sluice and a pile of half-filled sandbags, were unlikely to tempt a thief. I sat down on the chest and stripped off my boots, allowing a trickle of water onto the earth floor. Blackwood, meanwhile, busied himself with tethering the horses and loosening girths.

I watched him through the open door as I continued to divest myself of my soaked nethergarments. He was a fine figure of a man, and I could understand Holmes' fascination with him. He radiated power and danger to which I felt my body responding without conscious thought – and despite the lingering chill.

"Well, Doctor," he said, having completed his task, "if you would forgive an amateur trespassing on your professional ground, I would recommend a warming drink. If you still have some restorative left in that flask of yours? "

I had forgotten the whisky, and the reminder was welcome. I reached into my jacket pocket for it and he watched from his vantage point, leaning nonchalantly against the fame of the door.

His next comment was so unexpected that I choked on the whisky.

"Were you aware," he asked, "that your friend Mr Holmes had a passionate sexual affair with Lord Coward when they were at University?"

My reaction had doubtless given away my personal response to the comment, but when I had recovered, recapped the flask and begun to attend my soaked state again, I had regained my composure enough to answer, curtly. "They were friends," I said.

"Intimate friends." Blackwood had turned to stare out over the bleak Norfolk countryside, apparently ignoring my attempt to wring the ditchwater from my stockings. His next words disabused me of that comforting thought. "So you did not know." It was a statement now, not a question. "I thought as much from your lack of response to my introduction. Tell me, Doctor, how intimate is your own friendship with our esteemed detective?"

"That," I said, "Is none of your business."

"Ah." He turned. "So you have not acted in accordance with your proclivities."

My hands twisted the wool between them as though it was his handsome neck, but his words had moved me. The thought of Holmes with another man...

He piled further misery on me with his next comment.

"I would not be surprised if they were renewing their – intimate – acquaintance at this moment," he said.

The image that his words conjoured made me even more desperately aroused.

"I... Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

He turned, crossed the small space between us and sat down beside me, laying a hand on my unclad flesh. "Because I do not believe that there should be secrets between friends," he said. "And there are no secrets between myself and Coward."

I had a sudden conviction that he had somehow engineered everything, the invitation, the hunt, my fall, my current state of undress, and the facilities of this hut.

"You are a sensual man, Watson. I should hate to see that go to waste for lack of... courage." His lips were very close as he whispered this. I turned my head away, and was not surprised to find them fastened on my throat, on the point of my jaw and, finally, on that sensitive place, just behind my ear, which seems directly in connection with my manhood. I felt him smile as his hand moved to confirm the response to his kiss.

"Very sensual," he repeated, and my thighs were no longer cold, though my mind felt frozen.

For a moment I contemplated responding to his touch. It would be so simple. And such a betrayal, of myself and Holmes. I looked at his hand where it rested on my thigh. The long, elegant fingers were so like Holmes' that I could almost imagine that the touch was his. I closed my eyes, picturing the way Holmes picks up his violin bow, remembering the elegant turn of his wrist, the delicacy of his fingertip touch on wood and bone and string, and wishing that he would grasp my manhood with that same gesture.

He moved. And I came to my senses and pushed him away. I was half surprised when he went, standing in one fluid movement and backing across the tiny sheltered space to resume his place at the door.

"You had better finish dressing, Doctor. The hunt is returning this way. We can rejoin them with no one the wiser."

He was right. I hurried to obey, drawing on my boots as he readied the horses. By the time I emerged he was already in his saddle, both he and his mount as eager to rejoin the chase as if they had never left. "Tell Holmes," he said, wrenching his mount around so viciously that bloody foam flew from the bit, "that whatever he was in the past, Lord Coward is _mine_ now. And I am a jealous Lord."

And then he had leapt the ditch and was pounding across the plough in the wake of the field.

I mounted and followed more slowly. He had given me much to think on.

Holmes

It had been a long time since Victor and I had devised the code by which we had communicated the most private arrangements between us, and I had, for a moment, been deceived by the ostensible content of his message. I did not doubt that the warning against Blackwood and the hint of his designs on Parliamentary and military power were accurate, but it was the hidden message, conveyed by every third word of the note, that sent me hurrying to the Tower rooms which the Duke had allocated to his titled guests, a luxuriously appointed suite with a sitting room, private bathroom, and a bedroom with a large four-poster bed, on which my old school friend waited for me, naked, save for the purloined hunting boots.

You can tell a great deal about a person from their footwear. It is the first thing that I study in a new client. Watson has noted it in his chronicles of my cases a dozen times. Indeed, were it not for the particular attention paid to the disposal of Sir Henry's boots I might never have solved the affair of the Hound. But in all his writings he has never remarked on my particular interest in the subject.

Watson does not know me as well as Victor.

I crossed the room as though drawn by a magnet, and laid my right hand on the smooth leather.

Victor sighed as though I had touched bare skin.

"It has been a long time," I said.

He smiled. It was wicked and endearing. "Not so long that you have forgotten what pleases me?"

"No more than you have forgotten what gives me pleasure." I bent my lips to the boot I held, revelling in the hard, masculine scent of it, and of him.

"Stealing these was foolhardy," I said, raising my eyes to his as I ran a long finger round the seam where tan leather met black.

He shrugged. The movement rippled through both our bodies, and I found myself breathing harder. "I knew it would catch your attention. And they are very splendid boots." He extended his right leg, displaying the tight-fitting leather moulded to his calf, polished to a shine that reflected the light. He was right, they were irresistible.

As was he. The movement had the effect of allowing me greater access to the boots, and to his manhood. My hands explored both, passing from leather to skin, to hair, as his own fingers unfastened my tie, my collar, and my shirt, pushing the fabric away so that he could reciprocate my touch.

He came before his task was completed, spilling over my hand and his stomach, and falling, as he always had following such activity, into a sated relaxed sprawl. I watched him fondly for a moment, before my own arousal became insistent and I stepped away to strip off my remaining garments, and, for good measure, the boots. I had undertaken to return them to the Duke in due course, and intended that they should be in good order. Victor stirred as I did so, and I could resist no longer.

I will not detail the pleasure we took in each others bodies – I am no wordsmith and crude language is a poor tool with which to convey the passion of our encounter. We trusted, we touched, we held, we spent. We engaged in mutual pursuit of the sin of Onan, and spilled our seed with no thought other than the attainment of relief. We both knew that we could have no more than this brief hour together and we had no leisure to spend the time in conversation.

+++

All too soon there was a clatter of hooves, and the music of hounds from the front drive of the house which our room overlooked, as the Hunt returned.

"I must go," I said. I was already dressed, having availed myself of the use of his bathroom while he recovered from our final act. He was still lounging on the bed, though now he was clad in a Chinese silk gown. It did not reflect his taste when I had known him, and I suspected that it had been the choice of his new friend, Lord Blackwood. I did not wish to speculate on their relationship now. I turned and picked up the Duke's boots. "I need to return these, and to see that Watson is safely returned."

He took a cigarette from the case by the bed and lit it with a Vesta. "I never thought that you'd go for a soldier," he said, watching the smoke writhe up into the canopy. "Far too rugged a type. Or was it the uniform?"

"I have never seen Watson in his uniform," I admitted. "I am not sure that he even kept it."

Victor nodded to the objects which I bore in my hand. "Not even the boots," he asked. "You always did have a passion for a smart pair of boots."

My mind flew to the sight of Watson as I had last seen him, in his buff jacket, cream breeches, and spurred riding boots. Perhaps Victor was right. The thought sent a frisson of desire through me. I wondered, as I closed the door of the tower room and made my way down the stairs to return the Duke's missing footwear to him, whether I should not pay more attention to my companion.

The End.


End file.
